it's 9:34 pm, on November 14, 2001 - leaves of november.

~

This first bit was all written last night.

*

This story by Julad deeply fucked with my head today. Also: repeatedly listening to 'gone'. Also: Buffy. With the sadness.

[Edit: I have been thinking about Spike and Buffy all day, and I think what I love -- and hate -- about them is that, they're just. not. good. I mean, when Buffy was unhappy with Angel, there was hope. She might get better. Right now? She's broken. She's not getting better. Her and Spike are really, the best thing -- best? Realest, maybe? -- in her life, and that makes it worse because it's not helping at all.]

So Julad fucked with my head because Justin he -- I can't even explain it. I can't put it into words because she did it well enough. I think it's supposed to be a happy ending, because he's content and; but. [Edit: I wasn't going to do that again. Huh.] I can't see it. There's a chill in it where Justin used to be upset, or passionate, or angry. I will have to ask Julad whether she thought it was happy.

I started a sentence right before this, "Izzy" after writing pages of boyband. But after the one word, I had nothing. I tried to write, "Izzy wanted to be angry, but just felt bone-jarring ache" or something; then I thought, no. So I wanted to write, "I want to be angry", and I couldn't, again. I also wanted to remind myself about telling Sheila that it felt like I've been dumped, just like in escape -- Chris says, "he dumped me", and then, "we weren't going out."

'Gone', repeat number five, or so.

And then I remembered watching the British Queer as Folk last night. QaF II, moreover, so it was happy ish, because of the uber-cheezy ending. I remember getting depressed -- if Stuart and Vince were better suited, and worse suited--

"I'll just hang around, find some things to do, to get my mind off missing you"

I think that's the line that gets me. That and Justin's flat, emotionless 'you're gone'. All the emotion of the rest of it doesn't hit that, flatness, with me.

[edit: same reason Buffy with Spike upsets me so.]

My hands feel like foreign objects. I cannot touch the sky.

~*~

That was all last night. Today, I have less to say because I sent an email to claire and it helped get rid of the need to talk about myself.

There's something else I wanted to mention: I was trying to drop the subject of why I don't like using the pronoun 'I' and Mel said, "You're kind of paranoid about that, aren't you?" She also wondered about how I felt about an audience, living in front of an audience, feeling in front of an audience, and I had to tell her, I don't really know.

I wanted to remember that 'You're kind of paranoid about that?'

I was talking to claire, in that email, all about, procreation, and I wrote her a love poem. Because why not write love poetry to your friends, right?

~*~

i feel like falling leaves in their
patience, on the dew and ground

after their romance with the branches, being dumped haphazardly down.

and after the pumpkins on the fence have all melted with the
bark of saplings
this october rolls into our november;
in the autumn, the phase of creation that is so anti and
disjointed even the sky curls in upon itself with
light, misty raindrops, that everything curls in upon itself

those little pumpkins lined up, heads, as testaments to
the winter of our disconnection

off the fence they roll, and the you comes tumbling after
the pieces scattering, jack-o-lantern graveyard
and one by one
we make some grim connection with the leaves below.

~

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what would sith be nostalgic about anyway - November 24, 2015
moving truck dilemma - October 28, 2015
- - July 19, 2015
- - July 01, 2015
bruise - June 29, 2015

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